Desire’s greatest pleasure was ever to be denied.
At the top of the tower red eyes winked. Tibi dabo.
Cast all your inferiorities and follies, and worthless proliferations
from far Rakino to Waitakere. the parade below, surging
photographically, pursued the narrative of the winning yacht,
and left in its wake a thin blue suture, in case of evacuation.

It was the skite hour.  Almost as if the Mother of Darkness
were laughing at the Living God. the town was about to be
emptied of its small, practical, older Japanese models.
the old and the sick, parked out in rows of beds,
their dripfeeds blinding in the sunshine,
could be wheeled about by the unemployed, if need be.

Grafton Bridge, nineteen ten, and beyond a sign
wherein was written simply SHARP
the sign of a company whose business is signs,
which said sign’s revenue pays one wage of one nurse for one year.
The hour in which the cables failed, and the fabled 
sails luffed, for fear of fire the law closed the city down.

All that was need was an ambiguousness
which would confound desire.
From this aspect it looks as if the black glass
will not last and the used needles will not be reshielded.
No herald appeared to ocntradict.
The Domain cattle graze on good green grief.

 From this aspect the seagulls are hurtled upwards towards us
like targets reconstituting themselves on rewind.
desire is a scarcity and excess a lack
which writes its clear cut texts on
the eyes of the oncologists and the quality office space:
(In 1885 my great-grandfather set out to convert the heathen.

The use of carrier pigeons failed to impress the natives
and the pigeons failed to deliver the messages.
They were intercepted by the Mother of Darkness, much
to her own amusement.   The Living God was
confounded.   So it was even-stevens.) NO PAST
NO PAST NO PAST the words which were written there.

After this rain has stopped, light shines on the new mews,
the inching spider winces down the tower,
and the Collector of Collectables floats by on helium
with a clay volcano, an old volvo, and a valve radio,
but says the vandals took the handles.
The old songs have a death which belongs to us all.

Behind the organic concrete buttresses,
can be seen that McCahon you threw out in the back shed -
and, whoa, take a bead on that:
Noam Chomsky halfway up a clay bank
watching for a pigeon to be released.
It’s just like that day the president was shot.

The custom of wearing red socks on 4th July
died out before the power failed.
Hocus jocus abracadabra dabo,
the view is fantastic, all you’d ever want to see in one life.
A plane flies north to bomb the ancient city of Baghdad.
“Empress of thei nfernal swamps, receive me.”